


Caveat Emptor

by dark_roast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spn_reversebang, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:12:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_roast/pseuds/dark_roast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a pinch hit for the 2011 SPN_ReverseBang.<br/><strong>Art Prompt Title: </strong><a href="http://pics.livejournal.com/spnreversemod/pic/00024hwx">Why Do I Love You?</a>, by Skylar0Grace.</p><p><strong>Summary: </strong> Season Three AU. Deviates from canon after episode 3x13 (<i>Ghostfacers</i>). A mostly-gen casefic (a little bit of Dean/Bela). The fic takes place in March of 2008, shortly after Bela steals the Colt, and two months before Dean's crossroads deal comes due.</p><p>Late one night, Dean disappears from a motel room, leaving behind signs of a struggle, and a very worried Sam. When a gorgeous brunette crossroads demon materializes and demands to know where Dean and Bela Talbot are hiding -- Sam and the demon quickly realize that neither one of them is responsible for Dean or Bela's disappearance.</p><p>Sam reluctantly agrees to team up with the crossroads demon. They follow Sam's single, thin lead to a Caligari House, a very private and exclusive auction house that shifts between dimensions to avoid "unpleasantness."</p><p>But Sam must find his brother before dawn. If he doesn't, Caligari House will vanish... and it won't reappear on Earth for another two centuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean was nearly asleep when the phone rang. Not the cell phone tucked in the pocket of his jeans, but Dad's phone, the one Dean kept in the Impala's glove compartment. The muffled burring jolted Dean awake. He cracked his knee on the underside of the dash, sending a spike of pain up through his leg. He jerked upright, wrenching his bruised ribs.

"Ow," he said. "Goddammit. Ow."

"Dude," his brother said from the driver's side.

Dean glanced over. Sam was simultaneously wincing and trying not to laugh. Dean fought with the latch on the glove compartment, and grabbed Dad's phone by the third ring. The number on the display was blocked.

As Dean lifted the phone to his ear, Sam clicked the stereo off in mid-Popeye's Chicken jingle. 

" 'Lo?" Dean's voice came out rough from sleep.

"Hello?" A female voice with an accent that sounded like it was all up in her nose and she wasn't moving her mouth at all, said, "Am I speaking with John Winchester?"

"John Winchester's not available." Even after nearly two years, Dean had to take a deep breath and a running start, put his arms over his face and crash through it like a plate glass window -- "He's dead."

Beside him, Sam got all tense and attentive. Dad giving out his own name, rather than an alias, was uncommon. Downright weird, even.

"Well," said the woman. "That is unfortunate. With whom am I speaking, please?"

Dean gave Sam a "Can you believe this shit?" look, even though Sam couldn't hear the other end of the conversation. Sam raised his eyebrows back at Dean, then returned his attention to the road. The afternoon sun slanted low and golden through the trees bordering the I-70. Sam fiddled with the sun visor, trying to adjust it precisely at the right angle to block the sun but not the road.

"I'm Dean Winchester," Dean said. "His son."

"Ah yes," said the woman. "I've heard about you Winchester boys. Would you be interested in doing a job for me?"

"Depends on the job," Dean replied. "For starters, who'm I talking to?"

"Forgive me. I'm being quite rude. My name is Miss Dorothy Arnold. I am the owner of Caligari House."

Dean snorted.

"So, you've heard of us," Dorothy said dryly.

"Everybody knows about Caligari House," Dean said.

He glanced over at Sam again, and Sam had the exact same expression on his face as Dean did.

Dean added, "You're a legend in the Hunter's community. An urban legend."

"We're quite real," Dorothy replied.

"Uh-huh," said Dean.

Usually, he was on the other end of this conversation. Trying to convince somebody that monsters were real, while those same monsters were trying to bust down a door eat them. This was totally different. Caligari House was (allegedly), a very private and very snooty auction house that shifted between dimensions. Their travel schedule depended on some irregularly-occurring conjunction of planets and constellations, not all of them in this universe.

"Your father did a job for Caligari House," Dorothy continued. "A sloppy job."

"Now, that I don't believe." Dean opened the glove box again, and dug around for Dad's journal. "My father was many things, but sloppy wasn't one of them."

"Fifteen years ago, I paid John Winchester to clear up a haunting. He claimed he'd banished the ghost, but he didn't. Now that Caligari House will be returning to the ghost's native plane of existence, I want this matter taken care of, once and for all."

"Who's your ghost?" Dean said. "Angry customer?"

Dorothy huffed.

"Fifteen years. It must be pretty pissed off." Balancing the journal on one knee, Dean untied the leather thong that held it closed.

Dorothy said, "Even though Caligari House travels, I do hear things through the grapevine."

"That so?"

Dean couldn't remember Dad saying anything about doing a job for Caligari House, and he couldn't remember any mention of the auction house in the journal -- but there was an awful lot of information crammed into those pages.

"I'm aware of your deal," said Dorothy.

Just like that, Dean's good mood was gone.

"Caligari House currently has in our possession a very valuable book that hasn't been seen on Earth since the fifteenth century. _Naturom Demonto_."

Dean sat up straight in the passenger seat.

"What is it?" Sam said under his breath.

" _Naturom Demonto_ ," Dean said. "Sure. Next you'll be telling me you've got a Yeti parking cars for you."

Every Hunter knew the stories of Caligari House, and every Hunter knew about _Naturom Demonto_ \-- except that _Naturom Demonto_ wasn't a myth. Probably. Written by the Dark Ones, bound in human skin, and inked in blood -- _Naturom Demonto_ was the grand-daddy of grimoires. It belonged in Hell, but in 1643, a Hunter named Ciska Barentsdochter stole the book from a demon in Rotterdam. Ciska managed to keep the book out of demonic hands for about three years. Then she vanished. _Naturom Demonto_ vanished with her.

"I'm not offering the book as payment," Dorothy said. "I shouldn't be paying you at all, for a job your father didn't do properly. But, Caligari House has a very important auction tonight, with many very influential bidders. I need everything to be perfect. I will offer you one half hour with _Naturom Demonto_ , in exchange for eliminating the ghost."

If Dean accepted the existence of Caligari House, then it was the most likely place to have stashed _Naturom Demonto_ for centuries. Half an hour with the grimoire could potentially give them a spell that would kill Lilith. It was incredible. Too good to believe.

"I do have one condition," said Dorothy.

"Of course you do."

"I only want you inside Caligari House, Dean. It's bad enough that you've got that filthy demon stain all over you -- but I will not work with that monstrous brother of yours."

Dean's hand tightened around the phone. A hot ball of fury coiled under his ribs. He wanted to tell Dorothy exactly where she could shove _Naturom Demonto_ , and her ghost, and her entire auction house. When she took the gigantic stick out of her ass, she'd have plenty of room.

But he couldn't. He couldn't throw away a chance, even a minuscule chance, of finding a way out of his deal. Bela was gone, the Colt was gone; Dean had two months left, and no other options.

"Fine," he said tightly. He would deal with Sam. Tell him… he had no idea what. He'd think of something. "Where's the house?"

"Nowhere a road goes. But, tonight at midnight, Caligari House will be in Maryland. Sabillasville. We will remain there until dawn."

"I'll be there." He and Sam weren't that far away, and Maryland wasn't that big. They could make it by midnight. Barely.

"Excellent. I'll contact you in several hours, and give you more explicit directions."

She hung up. Dean leaned over to tuck Dad's phone into the duffel bag between his feet. His bruised body objected to every movement.

"Caligari House?" Sam said. " _Naturom Demonto_? Who were you talking to?"

"We've got a job. Sabillasville, Maryland."

"When?"

Instead of looking at Sam, Dean dug through the deep pocket on the side of the door. It was full of maps. He pulled a handful out onto his lap and began sorting through them, looking for Maryland.

"Midnight," he said.

Utah, Pennsylvania, Maine, Florida. They really needed to get organized. Or, buy one of those GPS thingamabobs.

"Midnight, as in seven hours from now?" Sam said.

"Stop making that face."

"I'm not making a face."

"You've been making that face at me since you were five."

"Because I always have an excellent reason."

"Oh, so now you _admit_ you're making a face."

Sam slowed the Impala, pulling over toward the shoulder of the highway. Dean feared -- he truly feared -- that Sam would stop the car on the side of the road, and they'd have to sit there and Have A Talk. Again.

But the I-70 was nearly deserted. Sam waited for a green Camry to pass, then he made a u-turn and headed back the way they'd come.

"We'll have to drive all night," he said.

"Not all night."

"Most of the night. I don't even know if we'll make it to Maryland by midnight."

"I can drive," Dean offered, even though he knew it was the exact wrong thing to say.

"You need food, Dean. And you need sleep. In a bed."

"I'm not that bad off."

Sam glared at him.

"Eyes on the road," Dean said gruffly. "You already totaled my baby once."

"Seriously?" his brother protested.

"You kill us in a head-on collision, and I will haunt the shit out of you."

"Okay, well… I'll haunt you back, asshole. For distracting me while I'm driving."

"Fine," Dean said. "May the best ghost win."

Sam laughed.

Dean wasn't hurt all that badly -- relatively speaking -- but the long car ride was starting to wear on him. They'd been planning on stopping soon, maybe in Akron. Close enough that Dean had been willing to tough it out in exchange for the promise of a hot shower, a big sloppy burger, and a decent bed. Magic Fingers optional.

Sam didn't bother asking if it absolutely had to be tonight at midnight. What he said was, "Tell me about the job."

"Dad did some work for Caligari House."

"So, it's real."

The undisguised wonder in Sam's voice made Dean smile. "Yeah. Seems like."

Abandoning his search for a Maryland map, Dean reached for his father's journal on the dash, and recounted his conversation with Dorothy. Leaving out the part about her not wanting Sam inside Caligari House. Sam listened to the recap, frowning.

"This could be it," said Dean.

Sam shook his head.

"I know," Dean said. "This smells all kinds of funky to me, too. But we should at least check it out. Only..."

"Only?"

"Only this woman I talked to -- Dorothy Arnold --"

"Dorothy Arnold?"

"What?" Dean said. "Do you know her?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know. That name sounds really familiar."

"Well, she sounds like that... ah..." Dean snapped his fingers, trying to remember the fiancée's name from _Auntie Mame_ , and then, realizing Sam probably had never watched _Auntie Mame_ , and would probably rag on him for watching it -- Dean stiffened his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and tried to approximate the fiancée's nasal accent, "'I stepped on the ping-pong ball! It was ghastly!'"

"You sound like Thurston Howell."

"That's what she sounded like."

"Huh." Sam shook his head. "What did she say?"

Dean hesitated, then plunged ahead with it. "She only wants to work with me."

Sam's frown deepened.

"She... I guess Dad never mentioned you. Maybe because he was still pissed about you leaving for Stanford."

Sam bit his lip. Dean hated hurting him, but this hurt was so much easier for Sam to swallow. Far better to blame it on Dad's enduring douchebaggery and be done with it -- than for Dean to tell his brother he wasn't welcome because he was a demon-blooded freak. That he'd come back wrong. The less said about that, the better.

"I'm surprised Dad mentioned either one of us," Sam said. "When was this?"

"2004."

Dorothy had said fifteen years ago, and Dean was off by more than a decade, but in 2004, Sam had been at Stanford -- and he and Dean had been out of touch -- for about a year. And Sam was right: John Winchester's first instinct would have been to protect his children by not even alluding to them.

"Dad never said anything about the job to me." Dean shrugged. "Maybe I came up in conversation. Who knows?"

"Yeah," Sam said bitterly. "Who knows?"

"Look, you can still help," Dean hurried to add. "Hit the books. There's got to be something inside Caligari House that the ghost has attached itself to. Something Dad missed."

"So you believe her? Dorothy Arnold?"

"Dunno." Dean paged through the journal, slowly. The golden orange of afternoon was cooling swiftly to blue violet, and Dad's handwriting was tough to read, even in decent light. "It's worth checking out every lead we can, right? Even the crazy long shots."

"Right," Sam said quietly.

That was all he said about it.

Dean managed to catch some sleep between Somewhere In Ohio, and Somewhere In Pennsylvania. A thin, uneasy sleep. That was the best he could do nowadays. He hadn't slept well since Cold Oak, since the night he'd cradled his dying brother in his arms.

He drifted under the surface, as if the waking world were a thin sheet of ice. He wasn't aware of time passing, but he was aware of the dull, rhythmically throbbing pain in his ribs and his legs, of the rumble of the Impala's engine, of Sam's shadowy shape in the driver's seat. Sam lifted his right hand from the steering wheel, and reaching over to clasp Dean by the arm, like Sam was checking his pulse, except his fingers were in the wrong position. Dean felt the warmth and weight of Sam's hand on his arm for a moment, holding onto him. Then Sam let go. Maybe that happened. Maybe it was a dream. Trees streamed past the window. The radio poured a mumbly jumble of voices and disconnected fragments of songs into the air like a school of dark fishes; there and gone again.

Dean woke up when he felt the car slow down. Sam was pulling into a parking space underneath a glaring red sun. Dean rubbed his eyes. The red sun was a neon rooster, surrounded by lettering that identified their destination as The Chanticleer Motel. He didn't want to move any other part of his body yet. He knew how bad it was gonna hurt.

Sam answered Dean's next two questions before he asked them: "Waynesboro, Pennsylvania. About six miles north of Sabillasville. It's eleven fifteen."

"Plenty of time," Dean said. Then he cleared his throat, to get the sleep-roughness out of his "Told ya."

"It's late." Sam made that face again. "And you look like crap."

"I'm hungry," Dean countered.

His little brother's expression softened. "You could check us in. I could go out, get us some food."

Dean pushed upright in his seat, and groaned as the blood rushed into his stiff muscles, rousing all his aches and pains again. "Fucking Virginia. Fucking Bunny Man."

"And beer?" Sam suggested.

"Yes. Beer me."

Sam smiled. "I'll bring in the bags when I get back. Text me when you get our room number, okay?"

Dean nodded, grabbed his small duffel from the foot-well of the passenger side, and shoved Dad's journal into it. Then he climbed stiffly out of the Impala, shut the door, and raised a hand to his brother. Sam waved back. He looked worried.

Dean paid cash for a room with two queen beds. He tossed his duffel on the bed nearest the door, then texted the room number to Sam. Then he gritted his teeth and peeled off his tee shirt and jeans. The bandage on his right shin was dark with blossoms of dried blood, but when he pulled that back, he discovered he'd stopped bleeding. The ragged gash didn't look as bad now. It had scabbed over, and the skin around it was red and purple with fresh bruises, but it had looked a good deal more gruesome when it was gushing blood.

Sam had taped up his ribs, and Dean spent a moment unwinding the tape, telling himself to keep breathing. Like his leg, his torso was covered in bruises. He tossed the surgical gauze onto the bed, then pulled off his amulet, and put that more carefully on the nightstand.

Two ibuprofen tablets and one long, hot shower later, Dean felt better enough to dig out a clean pair of jeans from his duffel. He stretched out on the bed with Dad's journal. After about ten minutes of paging through it, he found a notation about Caligari House. Short, cryptic, written sideways in the margin. John had banished a ghost on December 14, 1993. Fifteen years ago, just as Dorothy had said.

Dean winced. The date was right there in Dad's handwriting, for Sam to see. Dean would have to tell Sam the truth, and Sam would get pissed at him for lying, especially since Dean had obviously been lying to protect him. Dad had managed to punish Dean, even after having been dead for a year and a half. Impressive.

Between the shower and the painkillers, he slipped into another weird, skimming-underwater doze, and next thing he knew, the motel room door slammed open. Dean jolted awake. It wasn't Sam. It was two guys Dean had never seen before. One of them had a big round belly under a three-piece suit, and sideburns like Wolverine, and the other one didn't look human.

Dean sprang off the bed. The not-human one with the gray-white skin tossed a small silver ball at him. It looked like the ball from _Phantasm_ , minus the blades. Dean jumped out of the way. The ball changed direction in midair, and nailed him in the chest. He felt a gigantic fist crush him: pressure and then pain ripped through his spine. His arms and legs clamped tight against his body, and he collapsed helpless onto the carpet, between the two beds. His vision swam with black flecks. His mouth filled up with blood. He'd bitten his tongue. He'd tazed himself once, in order to kill a Rawhead. He hadn't enjoyed electrocution then, either. It sucked ass, pretty much.

Wolverine Sideburns darted over to Dean and clamped a cold metal collar around his neck.

"Lets go," Wolverine said to his creepy companion. "Before his brother comes back."

The other guy nodded, but didn't speak. He couldn't. His mouth was much wider than a mouth ought to be: a lipless gash held shut with surgical staples. His eyes looked blind and silvery with cataracts, but he could see well enough: he plucked the silver ball off the carpet, and slipped it in the pocket of his black suit. Then he hauled Dean upright, more or less. Dean couldn't even lift a finger to fight back. His entire body shivered uncontrollably.

They dragged him out of the room and across the parking lot, toward a shiny black sedan. Dean heard the distinctive _tweep-tweep_ of a lock remote, and the trunk hatch of the sedan popped up. He uttered a thick grunt of protest -- what the fuck did they think he was going to do? It wasn't like he could put up much of a fight.

They shoved him roughly into the trunk, wedging his legs up to his chest. The interior of the hatch had a Devil's Trap drawn on it in white paint. That was the last thing Dean saw before the hatch slammed with a heavy thunk.

***

Sam set down the grease-spotted bag from Beef Barn outside the motel room door, and pulled the pistol from the waistband of his jeans. He nudged the door with his boot, and it swung open. He could see all of the room from the doorway. One of the beds was still made up; the covers from the other bed were rumpled and half dragged onto the floor.

He glided into the room. Blood splotched and splattered the sheets. Not a lot. Enough to start Sam's heart pounding frantically. Dean had two months left on his crossroads deal. But ever since Florida, ever since the Trickster had trapped them in that same repeating Tuesday, Sam had wondered and worried. How did Hell mark time? Did those days count?

He glanced at the clock on the nightstand between the beds. Twelve fifteen. Hellhounds came to collect their prey at midnight, but the blood… there was maybe enough for a busted lip. Not for Hellhounds ripping their victim apart. Signs of a struggle, yeah. Nowhere near the level of destruction he pictured following his brother getting dragged off to Hell. To say that Dean would've gone kicking and screaming was a criminal understatement.

Crossing the room silently, Sam checked out the closet. Three wooden hangers, the kind that didn't come off the rail. A thin brown blanket folded on the top shelf, with a pillow stacked on it. Next, the bathroom. He flicked on the light. Empty. The air was warm and steamy, and smelled like shampoo. A damp towel hung over the shower bar. Sam lowered his gun.

Back in the room, he crouched down to examine the space between the two beds, even though he knew it was pointless. Dad's journal lay on the carpet, and as Sam bent to retrieve it, the bright glint of metal caught his eye, down beside the nightstand.

"Hello, Sam."

Sam dropped the journal, and spun around, snapping the pistol up. Behind him stood a gorgeous young woman with long dark hair and a long black dress. Sam knew exactly what she was. The pistol was useless against her, but he couldn't make himself put it down. She stood between him and the door.

"Two months," Sam said. "Dean has two months left. You get the fuck out of here."

"Rather rude," she replied in a lilting British accent. "I wanted to thank you, Sam."

"For what?"

"For shooting my predecessor in the face. Thanks for the promotion." The demon tapped the tips of her fingers together. "Oh, but speaking of shooting people in the face… I heard you and Dean lost the Colt. Nice job."

"What do you want?" Sam snarled at her.

The crossroads demon ignored him, and instead swept a glance around the motel room. Her eyes moved back to Sam.

Sam stared at her, and she flicked one hand impatiently.

"Put that down. You'll give yourself a cramp."

Sam lowered his gun. "You don't have Dean."

"I don't," she said. "You haven't got him, either. Unless you make a habit of kicking down your own door." She put her hands on her hips. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in making a deal."

Sam laughed. "No thanks. If you can't find Dean, that means he's safe from you."

"True. Temporarily."

If Hellhounds hadn't taken Dean, then it had to be Caligari House. For whatever reason.

Sam had been in the Beef Barn drive-through when Dad's phone buzzed. A low, drawling voice with a distinctive Long Island Lockjaw accent asked for Dean. Dorothy Arnold. The name still tickled at Sam's memory. He'd heard it before. He was positive.

Sam pitched his voice lower, to approximate his brother's gruff baritone. He kept his answers curt, and hoped he could pass for Dean. And he had. Dorothy gave Sam directions to where Caligari House had appeared in Sabillasville. Dean was to meet her about two miles from the center of town, out along Old Sabillasville Road. Just past the Biggerson's Restaurant, and nearly at the border of Pennsylvania.

But, of course, when Sam found Dean, the crossroads demon would find Dean. She took a step closer to Sam, and he stood up quickly.

"It's not only Dean who's missing," she said. "Bela Talbot's gone as well."

There was only one reason why the crossroads demon would come looking for Bela: the exact same reason she'd come looking for Dean. Sam's stomach tightened with a combination of pity and fear.

The crossroads demon added, "If you help me, Sam, we could help each other. I might be able to renegotiate Dean's contract with the demon who holds it."

"Not interested."

The crossroads demon tilted her head to the side. "One year really isn't fair. The standard deal is for ten. Honestly, I feel a little bad about that. Dean was so desperate to save you, he would have done anything. Anything to get a little more time on earth with you. That's so dysfunctional, it's beautiful."

"What do you want?" Sam said. "My soul? Isn't that also the standard deal?"

She smiled. "I'm more interested in a non-permanent partnership. A sharing of information. You obviously know something. And you've got no loyalty to Bela."

"I'll tell you what I know, if you tell me the name of the demon who holds Dean's contract."

The crossroads demon shook her head. "No deal. Given enough time, I will find your brother. No one hides from Hell forever. Anyone who stands in my way, I'll kill them. Including you. I'm no black-eyed foot soldier, and I don't give a sweet bloody damn that you're Azazel's favorite baby. I'll rip your ribcage out, and turn it into a decorative planter. Which you'll be able to enjoy for the very, very long minute or two that you remain alive, while your own body weight slowly crushes your internal organs."

Sam swallowed. "Creative."

"You think I'm bluffing? By all means, go right ahead and think so."

If Dean was inside Caligari House, then Caligari House had wards strong enough to shield Dean from the crossroads demon. And if that was true, then Sam getting to Dean all by himself might be problematic. He didn't have time to round up backup. He had only until dawn to free his brother.

"All right," he said. "Non-permanent partnership."

The demon grinned.

"About six hours ago --"

"Ah-ah!" She held up a finger. "No. We do this by the rules. The terms of our agreement clearly stated and mutually agreed upon, and then we seal our deal with a kiss. That is how I do business. You, Sam Winchester, agree to help me find Dean Winchester and Bela Talbot. I agree to help you find Dean and Bela, and I agree to attempt to intercede on your brother's behalf with the demon who holds his contract. Our non-permanent partnership begins when our deal is sealed. It ends when we locate Bela and-or Dean, and we mutually agree to part ways."

"Fine. But, I don't agree to barter my soul," Sam said.

"I agree to this provision," the crossroads demon replied with a nod. "Your soul will not be forfeit to me. You agree to share all the information you have on the party or parties who abducted your brother."

"Potentially abducted," said Sam. "I don't know for sure that they did abduct him. You agree not to lie to me."

"Very well. And you agree not to lie to me. Demons aren't the only ones who lie."

"Agreed," said Sam. "You agree not to possess me."

"I agree not to make use of your… impressively capacious body without your consent."

"I won't consent," Sam said. Let her try and get past the anti-possession symbol tattooed on his chest. She wouldn't.

The crossroads demon added, "If you recover the Colt during the course of our arrangement, you agree not to shoot me with it."

"I agree," said Sam, "until the next time I see you. You agree not to use your demonic powers against me."

"I agree not to use my demonic powers against you during the course of our non-permanent partnership, until the next time we meet. Unless I am required to defend myself from you, or your brother."

"Fair enough," Sam said.

"We're agreed?"

"Yeah. We're agreed."

"Marvelous."

Sam didn't care much for the way she'd said that. She moved close, and snaked her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. It wasn't the kiss Sam expected. Not that he'd ever kissed a demon before. Not to his knowledge. He expected the kiss to be horrible and monstrous, but it was one of the better kisses he'd gotten. Kissing her meatsuit was like kissing a regular girl, but he could feel the power rushing between the crossroads demon and himself. It filled him with tingling heat from his toes to the crown of his head. He jerked back in surprise, and took a deep breath. His head was spinning.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. "Oh my. Sam Winchester. Let's seal a few more deals."

"One deal with you is too many deals already."

She clicked her tongue at him, then pouted. He wouldn't let her bait him and distract him. He crossed the room and scooped up Dad's journal, stretching out his arm to get Dean's amulet from the floor as well. Then he sat down on Dean's bed.

"Here's what I know," Sam said. "Earlier -- yesterday evening -- Dean got a call to do a job at Caligari House."

Sam glanced at the crossroads demon. She didn't look surprised by his mention of Caligari House. Instead, she frowned, as if Caligari House explained everything. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Caligari House," she said, "has been a thorn in our side for centuries. All of that accumulated expertise and lore, not to mention all those stolen artifacts. No demon can get into Caligari House, unless invited." She tapped a finger on her chin. "So, you're thinking Caligari House abducted your brother?"

Sam shrugged. "That's the working hypothesis."

The crossroads demon sat down on the other bed, opposite Sam and crossed her legs. The side slit of her black dress fell open, showing him a sleek length of calf and thigh. "But why snatch Dean?"

"I don't know." Sam heard the frustration in his own voice. "They have to know you'll come after them -- or try to. Dean's not worth anything, except to you. And me. This woman named Dorothy Arnold contacted..." Sam trailed off as he noticed the crossroad demon's eyes narrowing.

"Miss Arnold," she said. "I've been looking for her since 1910."

The penny dropped. Sam snapped his fingers. " _Mysterious Vanishings_."

He and Dean had spent New Year's Eve Day tracking down a jiang-shi in Barbertown, Ohio. Dean had bitched constantly about missing the _Twilight Zone_ marathon on the Sci-Fi Channel. They were back at the motel in time to catch the last three episodes, and afterward, Sci-Fi showed a marathon of _Mysterious Vanishings_ episodes. Dorothy Arnold had disappeared while walking through Central Park in December of 1910.

The crossroads demon nodded. "It might surprise you to know that no one else has ever vanished _before_ the end of a ten year deal. Most of you wait until you hear the Hellhounds howling. Then you try to run."

Sam said, "It could be another Dorothy Arnold."

"It's not," the demon told him. "Go on."

"Well... Dorothy told Dean that our dad worked on a haunting, and didn't finish the job. If we banished the ghost, she offered us half an hour with _Naturom Demonto._ Dean agreed to take the job."

The demon smiled. Condescendingly.

"So, that's the urban legend?" Sam said. _Naturom Demonto_ , not Caligari House?"

" _Naturom Demonto_ is real," she replied. "It's been safe in Hell since 1647."

Sam sighed.

"Look at that face," she said. "I almost feel bad." She rose to her feet again, and paced across the room. Then she swung around and clapped her hands. "If I recover Dorothy-- _and_ locate your brother and Bela -- they'll love me downstairs."

"Congratulations," Sam said dryly.

"It would give me more leverage with my boss, Sam. To negotiate for your brother."

Sam frowned, and addressed his other pressing problem. "We can't even get into Caligari House. You said it had powerful wards, and Dorothy told Dean she didn't want to work with me. Only him."

"What if they grabbed the wrong brother?" the crossroads demon suggested. "Why ask Dean to do a job, then kidnap him?"

"I thought about that," Sam replied. "But, then why take Bela? Dean and Bela both made crossroads deals." He glanced up at the demon, who nodded.

"Nothing about this makes sense," he muttered. He ran the leather cord of Dean's amulet through his fingers. There was only one way to figure it out: take the job.

Leaving the bag of burgers from Beef Barn to go cold on the table by the door, Sam and the crossroads demon drove south from Waynesboro, across the Pennsylvania border, toward Old Sabillasville Road.

When he was catty-corner from the deserted parking lot of the Biggerson's Restaurant, he turned off the main road, onto a dirt drive marked Private. Two posts flanked the entrance, and a metal gate had been swung back to allow the car to enter. He was expected. He drove slowly up the rutted, weedy drive, mindful of the Impala's undercarriage. Dean would murder Sam, if Sam jacked up the car.

The Impala topped a gentle rise and there, sitting in the middle of a farm field bordered by trees, was a large, half-timbered building that would have looked perfectly at home in Stratford-on-Avon. It had three stories, at least. It was tough to tell because the second floor balcony protruded above the first floor, and above that peeked a cluster of pointed roofs bristling with weather vanes and lightning rods. The windows of Caligari House were dark, but its white-plastered walls glowed in the moonlight.

Sam wondered if anyone else could see the building, or only those who knew that Caligari House was there to be seen.

"Holy shit," he murmured.

"Warded," said the crossroads demon. "Exactly as I thought."

Sam tore himself away from staring at the Hunter's drinking tale come to life, and focused on the dark-haired woman in the passenger seat.

She said, "Warding spells are designed to keep out unwanted demons. If you summon me, I can get in anywhere. Maybe even Heaven."

"Where am I going to find a crossroads, inside of a building?"

The demon plucked the crumpled Beef Barn receipt from the seat between them, and smoothed it out on the dash. "Got a pen?"

Sam grabbed his father's journal, and pulled out the ballpoint stuck through the loop inside the cover. "Here you go."

"Find two corridors that cross." The demon wrote something on the back of the receipt. "You don't need to bury anything. There's another method."

She handed him the receipt, and Sam looked over the thankfully uncomplicated set of glyphs printed on it.

"Draw this in blood. Yours. Ask for me. Crowley."

"Your name is Crowley?"

"What's wrong with Crowley?"

"It's… an unusual name for a girl."

"I'm _wearing_ a girl."

Sam had nothing to say to that.

"Invite me inside," Crowley told him. "I'll find you. Don't you welch on me, _Sammy_. We sealed a deal."

"I won't," Sam replied with a frown. "I promised."

By the time he finished talking, the passenger seat was empty. Sam pulled the Impala over as far over to the side of the road as he could, until the car's whitewalls nearly touched the weathered board fence.

Caligari House already knew he was there. He was certain of that. He shut off the engine and the lights. He slipped Dean's amulet over his head, then he clicked on the overhead dome light and grabbed Dad's journal from where it had been sitting on the front seat between him and Crowley. He flipped through the pages until he found a small, cryptic notation about Dad doing a job for Caligari House in Los Angeles in December of 1993. Not in 2004, like Dean had said.

Dad's note wasn't very helpful. The ghost in Caligari House was Mortimer Banks. His skull had been polished, varnished, then converted into a drinking goblet, which was then listed in the auction catalog. Whether or not Mortimer's skull had been sold, the journal didn't say. Sam assumed some other part of Mortimer was probably inside the auction house, and Dad had overlooked it. John had added that the staff had their reasons for working at Caligari House. They were twitchy, paranoid and dangerous

Not the type of people you casually talk about your children with.

Not the type of people who'd feel confident letting Azazel's favorite baby through the front door. Sam sighed. Maybe later he'd have the luxury of getting mad at Dean for trying to protect him.

Sam got out of the car. He popped the trunk and rummaged through it, pulling out what he'd need for ghost-hunting. Sawed-off shotgun, salt rounds, conjure bag, holy water, EMF reader. The usual. He stuffed all of that, plus Dad's journal, into one of the empty duffels in the trunk, then he locked up the trunk and tucked the car keys deep down into the front right pocket of his blue jeans.

He headed across the field toward Caligari House. If they'd kidnapped Dean, and meant to kidnap Dean, then it followed they'd know Sam wasn't Dean. They might slam the door in his face. They might try and kill him. On the other hand, Caligari House hadn't been here on earth since Dean had been fourteen and Sam had been ten. They might not know which Winchester brother was which.

Sam walked up the front steps, lifted the bronze lion's-head knocker, and let it fall. It made no noise, but a second later, the door was opened by a man who looked like he was going to a wedding. A butler? A footman? Whoever he was, he wore an old-fashioned gray morning coat with swallow tails, and a gray and black striped ascot. Despite the fact that Caligari House was dark on the outside, the inside blazed with lights. It also looked bigger than the outside.

"Good evening, sir," said the butler-or-footman. "Are you expected?"

"Yes," Sam said. "I'm Dean Winchester."

"Please come in, Mr. Winchester."

Wondering if he'd ever see the outside of Caligari House again, Sam took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold.

Three massive crystal chandeliers hung high above a black and white tiled floor. The soaring walls were papered in purple and red velvet striped wallpaper, which was almost obscured by numerous oil paintings clustered close together. It looked like the stretching room in the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland.

"This way, please. Miss Arnold is expecting you."

So far, so good.

The butler led Sam down a hall, to a room crammed with overstuffed furniture and spindly tables, glass cabinets full of curios -- and even more paintings on the walls. A woman rose gracefully from a chaise longue, where she'd arranged herself. She looked about Sam's age, with a round face and a rosebud mouth, big blue eyes, and dark hair swirled into a complicated knot on top of her head. She rustled across the room in a silvery gray dress, and when she got close enough to Sam, she extended her hand.

"Good evening, Mr. Winchester," she said in her uppercrust drawl. "I am Miss Dorothy Arnold."

"Pleased to meet you." Sam shook her hand. Only afterward, from Dorothy's expression of faint distaste, did Sam realize that she'd expected him to bend and kiss it.

"Call me Dean," he said. He was tempted to wink at her, but he doubted he could pull that off with any credibility. His brother had a rare and special gift.

"You're very much like your father," Dorothy said.

"Thank you." Sam wasn't sure that was a compliment.

The gaslights flickered. Dorothy reacted with an instant of surprise. Not fear, but surprise. As if she hadn't expected any ghostly activity from Mortimer Banks.

Like Dean had observed earlier -- this hunt smelled all kinds of funky.

"So," Sam said. "This recurrent haunting..." A phantom wind shook the drapes, then subsided. "You aren't aware of any items in Caligari House that might be attached to Mr. Banks?"

"Other than the goblet your father destroyed, no. Dear me. Poor Mr. Banks."

Something thumped on the wall, up near the ceiling. Dorothy gave a small shriek.

"Guess I should get started," Sam said.

Dorothy smoothed her skirts, nervously. "Please do."

"Mind if I poke around?"

He headed toward the door, and Dorothy fluffed after him in billows of silk and lace. "Begin on the upper floors, if you please. There's a good deal of storage up there. Older rooms we don't use as often. We have a very important and exclusive auction planned for tonight, with very important clientele."

"I won't get in your way," said Sam. He smiled at her. His own kind of smile. His people-pleasing, tell-me-everything smile.

Dorothy dimpled back at him. Whatever it was behind the walls knocked again: a swift rataplan of muffled blows. Then the windows rattled in their frames.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Winchester," she said. "I do appreciate it."

Sam crossed the ornate foyer and headed up the stairs, pulling the EMF meter out of his duffel. He switched the EMF meter on, panned it around. Though the chandeliers swayed overhead, crystal pendants tinkling, the meter stayed silent.

He climbed the curving staircase to the second floor. A long gallery ran along the edge of the foyer. Beyond that, the hallway continued, with closed doors on both sides, interspersed by the occasional portrait, or a niche with a potted plant. Sam moved quickly, not bothering to investigate any of the rooms, sweeping the stubbornly silent EMF back and forth a few more times. Even as he kept hearing thumps and rattles, even as the gas flames in the ornamental sconces flickered, nothing showed up on the EMF. He was past the intersection of two corridors before he realized it.

He backtracked, stopped at the intersection. There was nobody up here. It was creepily quiet, except for Mortimer Banks -- or whatever it was.

Setting down his duffel, Sam put the EMF meter on top of it, and dug the Beef Barn receipt out of his jeans. A quick slice with his pocket knife across the back of his hand, a small burn of pain, and he crouched to reproduce Crowley's sigil on the polished wood floor of Caligari House.

"Okay, Crowley," he whispered. "Consider this your invitation."

"I accept," said the crossroads demon.

Sam half-turned; she'd appeared behind him. With the hand that wasn't bleeding, he scrubbed the sigil off the floor. It left a dark, indistinct stain. Good enough. He rose to his feet.

"There's no ghost here," he said.

"No," Crowley said. "It's all me. And now that I'm inside, I can really kick up a fuss." She gave him that predatory grin again, and her eyes changed from dark brown to demonic red.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Dean considered making a break for it. Underneath his bare feet, he could feel rocks and cold dirt. In front of him stood a Renaissancey building: Caligari House. Really real, after all. On the other side of the unpaved road, there was nothing but a low fence and an empty field. His hands weren't even tied. He dropped his shoulder and drove it in to Wolverine's stomach. As the man staggered back with a startled _oof_ , Dean took off.

Right away, he realized his mistake. As he darted across the road, all the strength left his legs. He collided with the low fence, heaved himself over, and collapsed into the field on the other side. The metal collar around his neck had never warmed from contact with his skin. It had stayed cold the entire time Dean had been curled up in the trunk of the car. It felt even colder now.

Digging his fingers and toes into the dirt, he forced himself to his feet, and headed across the field. He wasn't running. It was more like a drunken stagger. He could hear them coming after him. They weren't in a hurry. With every step Dean took, the collar tightened around his neck, cutting off his air. He yanked at it, fumbling for a latch or a hinge. Nothing. Tingling numbness spread from his fingertips and toes and finally his legs wouldn't hold him upright. He fell. The pressure around his throat disappeared. He gulped in air and the rich smell of turned earth

The goon with the stapled-shut mouth walked up to him. Dean could tell it was him from his shiny black boots. Wolverine, wearing tasseled loafers, picked his way over to Dean's other side. Staplemouth bent down and thrust his arm into Dean's field of vision, pulling back the cuff of his suit jacket back. On his wrist was a metal cuff. The same weird greenish metal as Dean's collar. The message was clear: _Don't try that again._

"F-fuck you," Dean grunted.

Not high on his list of witty retorts. He braced himself for a kick in the ribs, but they were more civilized than that. They hauled him to his feet, and dragged him inside Caligari House.

Dean tried to retain as much as he could of back corridors and stairs. He expected to end up in a dungeon, because that's the kind of house it was: all flickering lamps and frowning portraits. Wolverine and Staplemouth brought him to a small room with a fire roaring in the hearth. Not too bad. The bad part was the huge, filigreed birdcage taking up most of the room. It was the same greenish metal as his collar. And it was human-sized. Staplemouth swung the door open.

"Aw, _hell_ no!" Dean protested.

The two goons tossed him into the cage. Dean landed on a pile of plushy embroidered cushions. The door clanked shut. Somebody had painted sigils all over the wood-paneled walls. There was a devil's-trap on the ceiling, surrounded by a ring of symbols he didn't recognize.

"Hey," Dean said. "Wait a sec."

"We were instructed not to converse with you," said Wolverine.

Staplemouth glared at Wolverine.

"Look, you caught me," Dean said. "Fair and square. I'm obviously not leaving anytime soon. All I want to know is why you grabbed me."

Staplemouth unfastened the metal cuff from his wrist, and set it on a spindly table near the door.

"Who are you?" Dean persisted. "Who hired you? Lilith?"

Wolverine kicked the cage bars. Not very hard. "Shut your mouth," he said. "Abomination."

"Dude, that's not very friendly."

But, it made sense now. The Darth Vader collar. The cage. The devil's trap and the sigils. These clowns thought he was Sammy -- Cold Oak Champion. Next in line for the crown of Hell.

"Let me go," Dean said. "And I promise I won't show you what your own spinal cords look like."

It was a ridiculous bluff. But no harm in trying. Wolverine uttered a snort of scornful laughter.

Everything in the room shivered slightly. Drawers rattled in the chest in the corner. The books in the bookcase thumped covers. The crystal danglies on a lampshade tinkled. The smug amusement on the goons' faces disappeared.

Dean grabbed the bars and hauled himself to his feet. Why did these two look so freaked out? It was only the ghost of Mortimer Banks, who'd been haunting them for the past decade and a half. Wasn't it?

"Let me go," he said. "Right now."

The lights flickered. Staplemouth looked up at the devil's trap on the ceiling.

"You think that's enough to hold me? Are you positive?"

"You --" Wolverine pointed a shaky finger at Dean. "You can't escape. Stop it."

"I'm the goddamn Antichrist," Dean replied. "I'm accustomed to better treatment."

Something rattled the windows, like a heavy gust of wind. Both men jumped, and whipped around toward the noise. Wolverine made for the door. Staplemouth stood staring at Dean with his creepy cataract eyes.

"I want slave girls. Nubile, oiled slave girls. And pie."

Staplemouth strode to the door.

"Bring me pie, or I shall be extremely displeased," Dean called after them as they left.

Furious banging inside the walls followed. The thumping and the flickering lights continued for a few seconds, then went quiet.

"Hey," Dean said again. "Mortimer? You here? Talk to me."

Nothing replied. But, Dean wasn't left alone for long. The door opened, and in walked a short, curvy brunette in a gray ball gown. Bela Talbot followed her into the room.

Dean clenched his teeth. There wasn't much he could do, short of swearing at her. A look flashed across her face that stopped him saying anything. Surprise -- and then terror. Whatever deal she'd made to deliver Sam, it wasn't a deal she could back out of.

"Good evening, Mr. Winchester," said the brunette. Dean recognized the _Auntie Mame_ accent belonging to Dorothy Arnold.

He ignored her. "Bela. I should've known."

Bela's lips curved in a catlike smile, while she pinned Dean's gaze with hers. She was thinking so hard, he could practically hear her: _Play along. Please play along._

"Hello Sam," she said. "Long time, no see."

"Not long enough," Dean replied.

"I'm impressed, Miss Talbot," said Dorothy. "I admit I didn't entirely believe you about Sam Winchester's abilities. I apologize."

"I told you he was the genuine article," Bela said.

"Just you wait," Dean said. "I'll show you how _genuine_ I can be."

Dorothy laughed. "I'm afraid you won't have much opportunity for that, Mr. Winchester. Not here, at any rate." She traced her fingertips across the bars of Dean's cage. "You're the star attraction in tonight's auction."

"What..." Dean flicked his eyes to Bela, then back to Dorothy. "What?"

"I expect to get an excellent price for you. Several parties have already expressed interest."

"Like who?"

"Nobody you'd know," Dorothy replied.

That was a relief. Sort of.

"Humor me," said Dean. "Who'd want to buy an Antichrist?"

"Who wouldn't?" Bela answered. "You're a doomsday weapon in a pretty package."

Whatever was behind the walls -- Mortimer, or some other spirit -- thumped and bumped and rumbled.

Dorothy smiled, shaking her head in admiration. "Truly extraordinary."

"You'll honor our arrangement?"

"Absolutely." Dorothy laid her hand on Bela's arm. "Believe me, I sympathize completely, my dear. As soon as you've rid us of the other one."

"Me? That's not what we agreed on."

 _Sam_ , Dean realized. _They're talking about Sam_.

"You know the Winchesters best," Dorothy countered.

"Hurt my brother, and I'll murder you both," Dean growled.

Bela turned several whiter shades of pale.

Dorothy smiled. "Calm yourself, Mr. Winchester... may I call you Sam?"

"You may not," said Dean.

"I assure you, your brother has been nothing but polite. I intend only for Miss Talbot to escort him to the door."

"I don't believe you."

"That's not very gentlemanly."

"Who told you the Antichrist was a gentleman?"

Dorothy frowned at Dean, but then she gave Bela a sugary smile. "It's a teensy weensy favor," she said, holding her thumb and her index finger up, about an inch apart. "Dean knows you."

"That's exactly why I'd rather not cross paths with him."

"Pish-posh, Miss Talbot."

"You already pish-poshed _me_ off," Dean said. "You don't want to get on Dean's bad side. He's been taking down monsters and demons for years. He's a legend. I'd give you some names for character references, 'cept they're all dead."

Bela's lips quirked.

Dean went on, "You think I'm scary? My big brother --"

The fire in the fireplace roared and rushed up the chimney, the flames turning an unnatural shade of crimson, before subsiding.

"You're better off letting both of us walk out the door," Dean finished.

***

"Was that necessary?" Sam said, rubbing his bruised upper arm.

"Two for flinching," Crowley replied.

Sam glared at her. She was as bad as Dean, which was saying something. Sam sure as hell didn't blame himself for flinching. All the gaslight sconces lining the corridor had flared with red fire. That was accompanied by a flurry of screams and shouts from downstairs. He could still hear hurrying footsteps.

"Dial it down a few notches," he said to Crowley.

"You really are party pooper, aren't you? Dean will probably enjoy some time away from you."

"Can you sense them? Dean and Bela?"

Crowley frowned. "No. For a moment..." Then she shook her head, as if to clear it. "I thought I sensed Bela, but I can't anymore."

"So maybe Dean isn't here at all," Sam said.

"I don't --" Crowley began.

Sam never found out what she didn't. Footsteps came up the stairs. Sam's first impulse was to hide. But he'd have to backtrack to where the corridors crossed. Every door he'd passed was locked.

"Shit," Sam hissed.

Crowley disappeared.

"Fuck," Sam added.

His instincts, or maybe his paranoia, screamed at him to run. Two men came up the stairs: a guy with muttonchop whiskers, who looked like Martin Van Buren, and another one with pale, leprous skin, who didn't look human. When they got to the top of the staircase, they stopped and stared at Sam.

Sam raised a hand awkwardly. "Hey there."

"Dean Winchester?" said President Van Buren.

Sam smiled what he hoped was a harmless and ingratiating smile. "That's right."

"Where is the demon?"

"No demon up here," Sam said, keeping his smile on his face. "Just hunting for your ghost."

"It must be inside of you," said Van Buren.

"Look..." Sam began, raising his hands, palm-outward. "This is a mistake."

The creepy pale guy with the metallic smile removed a small silver ball from his pocket. He tossed it at Sam, gently and underhand, as if encouraging a small bird to take to the air. It looked like a snitch, without wings.

The snitch took flight with a high-pitched, angry whine. Sam ducked out of the way. The ball overshot him, and zipped toward the end of the hallway. Sam ran for the intersecting corridor. Behind him, the mosquito whine got rapidly louder. He risked a glance behind him, then threw himself against one of the doors. The wood didn't even shake. The ball shot toward the two men. Van Buren stumbled down a few steps, grabbing the banister. The other one flicked his fingertips. The snitch reversed and zizzed after Sam.

He had no idea what would happen if the snitch caught up with him, but he figured it couldn't be good. He dove into the intersecting corridor. It was short, with a window at the end. The window faced the front of the house: Sam caught a glimpse of empty field and fence, but the Impala was invisible in the darkness. So close; so metaphorically far away.

Sam spun around, reaching under his jacket for his gun. Crowley appeared in front of him. She caught the snitch out of the air.

"Thanks --" Sam gasped.

Her body fell apart in like a water balloon dropped on a concrete floor; disintegrating into gobbets of meat and scattered bones. A splash of blood hit Sam across the cheek, a cloud of ashy blackness exploded toward the ceiling, and the silver ball dropped into the folds of her black dress.

 _Bollocks!_ said the demon.

Sam heard Crowley clearly, as if the demon had been speaking close to his ear. It wasn't a human voice. It wasn't even a _voice_. It was like some horrible machine designed for ripping and grinding -- a wood chipper, maybe -- decided to team up with a thousand flies, and try to communicate.

 _Let me in,_ she -- it -- insisted.

Sam stumbled back toward the window. "We made a deal. We agreed."

_I agreed not to use you without your consent._

Sam clapped his hand over the anti-possession tattoo on his chest.

_I can't help you, dumbass. Not like this. Do you want to die? Without finding Dean?_

_Fuck you,_ Sam thought. _That isn't fair._ But since when did demons play fair?

Then he heard it. A faint, buzzing whine, from the direction of the staircase. Another snitch. He had two choices. Agree, or end up on the carpet in a pile of meat and hair and blood, like the poor brunette Crowley had been riding.

_I'll let you go. Promise. We'll make another deal, and seal it with a kiss. Open-mouth this time._

"Damn you," he said. "Get it over with."

It laughed. Sam's skin crawled. He'd been ridden by Meg, and being a helpless prisoner in his own body was awful enough. But, Meg taking him had been nearly as bad. He remembered her hurling him to the floor, and ramming herself down his throat like a fiery fist. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't fight her.

 _Relax._ Crowley sounded annoyed. _No time for candlelight and flowers. Open your mouth._

Sam did so. Crowley was down his throat and inside of him, and it felt like swallowing a charcoal briquette, but Crowley took possession of Sam with more speed and finesse than Meg had. Plenty of practice, no doubt. And where Meg had clamped down brutally hard to control Sam, Crowley held on lightly. Sam could feel the demon inside of him, feel it holding him like an egg. Delicately. As if too firm a grip would crush Sam.

 _Oh, I see,_ Crowley said, amused. Now the demon sounded like the voice of her meatsuit. _Not your first time at the rodeo._

"No," Sam said.

_Don't talk. I can hear you, if you think to me._

_Awesome._

_Don't worry, darling. I'm like a doctor. There's nothing you've got in here I haven't seen before._

The second snitch whipped around the corner. Sam felt his arm rise, his fingers open to catch it. Panic clutched him. What was Crowley planning to do? Grab the snitch, and then a third meatsuit, after she'd killed him?

Crowley didn't answer that. A rush of heat suffused Sam's body. He caught on fire from the inside. He lit up like a Christmas tree and a pinball machine and a fireworks finale; he felt dizzy and drunk and giddy. This feeling... it felt powerful. It felt glorious. It felt right.

The buzzing silver ball halted in mid-air, a foot from his outstretched hand. Sam stepped forward. Crowley wasn't controlling him: he and the demon moved as one united creature now, with one purpose.

He remembered Jake telling him to let go and give in, let the switches start flipping, and the hard drive start spinning. Powering up. Sam stepped out of the intersecting hallway, holding the snitch in his palm. He faced the two men at the head of the stairs.

 _Oh my, Sam..._ Crowley purred. _You're like riding in a limousine._

Sam smiled. Then he tossed the silver ball into the air.

***


	3. Chapter 3

Ultimately, after a lot of hanky fluttering, Dorothy decided to send "someone more qualified" to meet Mr. Winchester. She left Bela to watch the merchandise. The bars of Dean's cage were elaborately decorated, but Dean found a spot on the cage door that he could grab hold of and give the door a good rattling shake.

Bela folded her arms across her chest. "Really? You expect me to let you out? When I sicced Gordon Walker on you, you threatened to kill me."

"You keep giving me more and more reasons to make good on that threat," Dean said. "Where's the Colt? Are you putting that up for auction, along with my brother?"

"Along with _you_ , I believe you mean."

"Yeah. Great henchmen you've got there. I was worried about Sam for a while, but not so much anymore."

Bela paced across the room, toward the fireplace. She looked like she hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in a while.

"I thought you'd be enjoying this more," Dean said. "Me shirtless. In a cage."

She looked back over her shoulder, and smiled. It wasn't her usual carefree smirk. This smile was both sad and unguarded. It made Dean's stomach twist in a funny, uncomfortable way. It made him not want to be angry with her anymore. Put down the guns and be done with it. He was as tired as she was.

"Dean. Can we be serious?"

"I don't know, Bela. Can we?"

"I was supposed to give the Colt to someone. In exchange for... well, it doesn't matter."

"If it doesn't matter," Dean said, "why not tell me? Sam and I could help you."

She laughed. Short, sharp, and without humor.

"You don't think we would?"

"I know you'd try. Even after everything I've done. But you'd fail." She waved one hand impatiently. "I made a bad bargain. I knew it. I could feel it."

Dean nodded. "Spidey sense."

Bela smiled, this time with genuine amusement. "Yes. Spidey sense. That's why I gave the Colt to Dorothy, instead. I'd give it to you if I could."

Dean propped one elbow on a crossbar. "Out of the goodness of your heart?"

"The Colt isn't any use to me. Caligari House disappears at dawn, and I intend to disappear with it."

"So, this was your plan?" Dean said. "Stir up Mortimer Banks, then name-check my dad. Get me in here with the promise of _Naturom Demonto_ , while Dorothy's goons grab Sam, and sell him to the highest bidder?"

"Yes. Except there's no ghost in Caligari House." Bela's eyes darkened. "There isn't _supposed_ to be a ghost."

"Huh." Dean said. "So... what? You just expected me to leave, after half an hour with _Naturom Demonto_."

" _Naturom Demonto_ isn't here," Bela replied. "Dorothy doesn't have it. I'm sure she would have pretended to look for it, _very earnestly_." Bela twitched her chin at the trinkets, curios and books crammed on the shelves around the room.

"And by the time I give up, and drive back to the motel, it's too late to save Sam."

"Exactly."

Dean inhaled slowly, fighting his rising fury.

"But, they think Sam is you," Bela reminded him. "They'll likely let Sam go. Dean Winchester isn't worth the trouble. No Hellhounds on the property. No blood on the carpeting."

Dean glared at her in frustration. Bela obviously didn't know Sam as well as she thought. She didn't know how tenacious Sam could be. How single-minded. Sam must have discovered Dean missing by now, which was why he'd shown up at Caligari House. He wouldn't just walk out the front door.

Misinterpreting his glower, Bela said, "Sam is is a monster."

"He's my _brother_." Besides which, Sam hadn't manifested any powers, after Dean had put a bullet in the Yellow-Eyed Demon's face.

"At least you won't have to live with the ramifications of the war that's coming," Bela said. "You'll be dead in two months."

"Maybe."

"Almost assuredly."

"War profiteering sounds right up your alley, Bela. Why're you leaving?"

"Oh, we're back to that, are we?"

Dean shrugged.

Bela glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It read two-twenty. "I'd best get you ready for your big debut." From the pocket of her violet leather coat, she pulled out an old-fashioned key. "You can't wear _that_ on the auction block." Bela swept a hand to indicate Dean's faded, secondhand jeans. "You're supposed to be the heir to Hell. Demons are gathering to worship you."

"You can't be serious," Dean said.

Bela went to the table by the door, where Staplemouth had set his metal cuff. She put it on her own wrist. Like Staplemouth had done, Bela touched the cuff to the bars of the cage. Then she unlocked the door of the cage, and swung it open.

Dean stepped out, his bare feet sinking into the plushy Oriental carpet. "I'm gonna go ahead and point out the obvious."

"You know you're not Sam. I know you're not Sam. Sam knows he's not Dean. No one else needs to know anything. Work out the details later."

Dean stared at her.

Bela added, "Insist that your brother comes with you. Package deal. There are monsters to fight and fair maidens to rescue in other worlds than this one, Dean. Lilith can't follow Sam, and the crossroads demon can't follow you."

"And who won't be able to follow you?"

"It's not relevant. Or it won't be, in a few hours' time."

"Humor me. You owe me for Massachusetts."

"I paid you for Massachusetts."

"You never even _thanked_ me for saving you from the _Espiritó Santo_."

"Ten grand isn't enough gratitude for you?"

"That's not what I mean," Dean protested, frustrated. "I save people. Not just people who pay me. Not just whoever I think _deserves_ to be saved. People. Guess that makes me an idiot, as far as you're concerned -- but lucky for me, I haven't lost any sleep wondering what you think of me."

"Except that you apparently keep a tally of who says thank-you, and who doesn't."

"It's _polite_ to thank people," Dean said.

Bela tapped the base of her neck. "Don't wander too far, Boy King."

Reflexively, Dean touched the cold metal collar. "Don't suppose you'd do me a favor."

She shook her head. "I'm only trusted with one key, and it doesn't open that."

"You do owe me," Dean insisted, "if for nothing else, for the for the fact that you've been a colossal pain in my ass since the first moment I met you."

Bela smiled. Really smiled. Dean could admit she was pretty. Even beautiful. Sometimes. Right now, she was damn near dazzling. She patted his cheek.

"I'm almost going to miss you, Dean."

"You had my car towed. And you shot Sam."

"Which one of those bothered you more?"

Dean tipped his head to one side.

"Fine," Bela said. "Cooperate with me, and I'll tell you my sad, sad story."

Bela opened the door, and motioned sarcastically for Dean to follow her out. He didn't have much choice. He could overpower her, but he wouldn't get far before the collar around his neck started to tighten.

"What happens if I knock you down and take that thing off your wrist?" Dean asked, as he stepped into the hallway.

"You can't remove it. You'd have to cut off my hand."

"What happens if I cut off your hand?"

"I'd be upset," she answered. "I'd very likely cry. After that, I have no idea."

Dean snorted. Bela led him down the hallway, deeper into the Caligari House. From overhead came the sound of running footsteps, then silence. Sam, or Mortimer Banks, or something else. Dean and Bela exchanged glances. Then she caught him by the wrist.

"Don't you dare. Don't you go charging up there, yelling for Sammy. You have no idea what you're dealing with."

"Neither do you," Dean said.

"I don't have any choice."

"So you keep saying."

Bela opened a door, and pulled him through it. Dean halted inside the entrance, blinking in surprise. It looked like one of Dad's storage units: wall-to-wall metal shelving crammed with banker's boxes and plastic bins. An archway on the far side of the room was closed off with heavy black curtains.

From beyond the curtained archway, Dean heard Dorothy extolling her bidders: "Twenty-five? Do I hear thirty? Thirty from the entity in green. Thank you, sir or madam."

A long table sat next to the curtain. It was nearly empty, the top scattered with numbered cards. Nearest the curtain sat the two remaining auction lots, both cradled in velvet-lined display boxes: a fist-sized scarab carved from milky jade -- and the Colt.

"You offered to help me," Bela said from behind him. "All I need is to get away. No fisticuffs, no shooting sprees. You'll never see me again."

"I need that gun," Dean said.

"Then take it. Quietly. The way I took it from you." She opened a Narnia-sized wardrobe and began hunting through the clothing inside, adding briskly, "Let's find you something appropriate, shall we?"

Dean tugged at the collar around his neck, then ran his fingers around it, but he still couldn't find where the metal joined. "So. Caligari House. They do a lot of human trafficking?"

"Dorothy likes to be prepared for every eventuality."

"I'm not wearing anything froofy," Dean warned her.

"How about black? That's Antichristish." Bela held a pair of trousers up against her own waist. The legs draped down over her boots, to the floor. "These ought to fit you."

"Leather pants? Seriously?"

She tossed them at Dean. He caught them.

"I won't peek," she said. "I promise."

She turned her back. Dean held the pants up to his waist, the way she had. She was right. They probably would fit him. He unbuttoned his jeans and shoved them down, stepped out of the coil of denim and kicked it aside. He pulled on the black leather pants, trying not to think about how many asses or nuts they'd been cozy with, before his.

Out of nowhere, Bela said, "I made a deal."

Dean went still. He knew she wasn't talking about eBay, or a garage sale. The curtains on the far side of the room parted with a rustle and a thump. A slender Asian man in a sharp black suit stepped through, shot a wary glance at Dean, then picked up the jade scarab, and withdrew through the curtains.

"How many years?" Dean asked her.

"The usual ten. I suppose I came off as less desperate than you did."

"Jesus Christ, Bela. How old were you?"

"Fourteen."

Dean wanted to tell her to turn around and look at him. But, maybe it was easier for her to talk to him when she was looking at something that couldn't look back. From the auction room, Dorothy was going on about the history of this rare heart scarab of an Egyptian queen. The bidding would open at twelve thousand.

"My parents," Bela said. "I killed them. They died in a car crash, and I inherited their entire estate. Ten million pounds." The calm of her voice chilled Dean. "That's what I made the deal for, and that's why the _Espíritó Santo_ came for me."

"Fourteen year-old kids don't trade their souls for money."

Bela did face him then, smiling that little smirky smile he hated so much. "How would you know? You've never had money."

"When I was fourteen, I would've traded all the money in the world to get my mother back."

"You're lucky she didn't live long enough to disappoint you."

Dean spread his arms. "So? Does the Antichrist get a shirt?"

Bela looked startled for a second. Dean crossed the room and yanked a black silky shirt out of the wardrobe. He held it up against himself. Not terrible, relatively speaking.

"What do you think? Too Adam Lambert?"

She put a finger to her chin. "More Criss Angel."

"Good enough." Dean pulled the shirt over his head.

"Not bad." Bela gave it a couple of tugs, straightening it across his shoulders. "Lilith holds your contract. She holds mine as well; she holds all of them. She wanted the Colt, and in exchange, she promised to cancel my contract. Without the Colt, you and Sam can't hurt her."

Dean pressed his lips together.

"But, I made one deal with Lilith already, and she tricked me. She told me I wouldn't have to worry about my parents anymore. I had no idea she would kill them. Not that I was sorry, mind you."

"But..." Dean said. "You were fourteen years old." 

"Yes."

The cuffs of the black shirt were adorned with rows of ridiculous little silver buttons. Bela began to button them, one by one. The guy in the black suit came through the curtain, silently picked up the display box with the Colt inside, and went out again, leaving the table empty. As long as Dean and the Colt both remained inside Caligari House, the Colt wasn't out of his reach. As long as the Colt stayed out of Lilith's hands, there was still a chance it could save him.

"Tell me about Lilith," Dean said.

"She's changed our arrangement. She doesn't simply want the Colt now. She wants me to kill Sam." Bela swept her hair back over her shoulder. "I would kill Sam, you know. If I thought that would satisfy her."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I know."

Obviously, Bela was waiting for him to get angry. But, he'd done angry already. He'd done disgusted and disappointed and frustrated and turned on, and not necessarily in that order.

"Your parents..." he said. "Did they... hurt you? My dad, sometimes when he'd been drinking, he could get bad. But, the worst he ever did was yell. I guess killing monsters got everything else out of his system." Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair. He felt stupid in these clothes; he felt stupid in this entire situation. He added, "It's not like I can relate to you. But, I know how far I'd go. What I'd do. What I _have_ done -- first to save Sam, and now to get me out of my deal. I've done some questionable shit, Bela, and all I'm saying is if you--"

Bela put her hands to the sides of Dean's face, pulled him to her, and kissed him. Dean was surprised as hell, before lust exploded in his stomach. He wrapped his arms around her, not giving her a chance to change her mind. She kissed him back just as fiercely, her mouth locked on his. But this wasn't what he wanted. Not really. This was the first, the last, and the only kiss they were going to get. Why waste it fighting? Dean loosened his hold; he began to kiss her slowly, deeply, softly. Bela shivered as he moved his hands down her back. He caught her lower lip between his own, sucked it gently and released it, kissed the corners of her mouth lightly, carefully, touched his tongue to hers, but didn't thrust it into her mouth. He kissed her the way he wanted to kiss her. Like it meant something.

Bela pulled away, no farther than the circle his arms made. She drew breath like she meant to say something smart-ass, then she let the breath out in a sigh. Dean threaded a piece of her hair through his fingers, the one piece that curled precisely right, to frame the line of her cheek and her jaw. He wondered how long she spent getting it to curl like that every morning. He didn't ask. Instead, he kissed her cheek, her jaw line, inhaling the sweet smells of her shampoo and her perfume. Her fingers tightened on his arms.

"Don't," she said. "Dean, don't --"

She pushed him away. Dean was astonished and stricken to the heart to see her blue eyes filled with tears.

"Don't look at me like that," she snapped. "Why can't you just say something stupid, and ruin the moment?"

"You kissed _me_ ," he protested.

"Much better." She wiped her cheeks quickly with her fingertips. "You'll do. For the auction. You look fine."

"I've got no shoes."

She crouched down and rummaged behind the hanging clothes, emerging with a pair of black and red cowboy boots. "What size are your feet?"

"Ten," Dean said.

She handed the boots to him.

"What, no socks?"

Bela didn't answer. Dean knelt beside her on the scuffed hardwood floor.

"Hey," he said. "It's okay. You don't need to tell me anything."

She shook her head. "You've no idea how lucky you and your brother were. My father started in on me when I was eight. Not with his fists, mind you. He never struck me. I told my mother that he came into my room, and he... well, you can fill in the blanks, I'm sure. My mother slapped me, and she called me a liar. But she knew. I could see in her eyes that she knew. It was six years before I met Lilith. Six years before she told me she could make everything better." Bela tucked her hair behind her ear again. "That's not the worst of it, though. The worst is that I know exactly where my father went when he died. He's been down there ten years. Waiting for his darling daughter, who murdered him."

Nausea and horror and pity twisted together in Dean's stomach. There was nothing he could say to her. Nothing at all. Instead, he touched her hair lightly, fingers following one of the thick strands that were paler gold than the rest, from the crown of her head, down to her shoulder.

The curtains rustled. Bela sprang up like a startled cat. Dean stayed where he was on the floor, pulling on the cowboy boots.

The guy in the suit beckoned impatiently at Bela, tapping his wrist. "What are you doing? The Boy King is up next. Give me the bracelet."

Dean stamped his feet into the cowboy boots and stood up. "Not you. I want her to take me."

"Don't be childish," Bela said.

The guy shrugged. "It's fine by me, Bela. Just get a move-on. She's almost sold the Colt." He nodded to Dean, as he headed for the door on the other side of the room. "Break a leg, man."

"Thanks. Take it easy," Dean replied.

"One hundred ten going once," Dorothy's voice floated through the curtains. "One hundred ten going twice. Sold to the Nomarch of Quela'larn. Thank you, madam. And now we come to our last item of the night. Caligari House is proud to present this unique item. Many of you have come a long distance to try your luck, or just to get a look. Truly, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity."

Bela nudged Dean. "Behave," she whispered in his ear.

Dean grabbed both edges of the curtain and threw his arms wide, flinging the curtains open with a dramatic flourish. He stepped into a smaller room than he expected. Like the rest of Caligari House, flickering gas lamps illuminated the auction hall: a small stage, and an audience of about thirty. A patter of applause greeted his entrance.

Some of the bidders were human; some were not. Right in the front row sat a large black cat with a jewel-encrusted collar. Dean spotted the "entity in green" who had bought the scarab. He she or it sat in the third row, hidden under grass green robes embroidered with darker green. There wasn't even a gap where the entity could look out.

Dorothy extended her hand, in which she held a three by five note card. "May I present Sam Winchester, heir to the throne of Hell."

"Ladies," Dean said. "Gentlemen. Unspecified. Feast your eyes."

Several of the audience members laughed. Dorothy cleared her throat with a delicate little "Ahem!"

Dean pivoted slowly, so the bidders could appreciate his ridiculous outfit from every angle.

"As always," Dorothy read from her note card, "the spotless, centuries-old reputation of Caligari House stands behind every item we offer for sale. Sam Winchester is the last surviving of Azazel's demon-corrupted children. He is currently in contention with the demon Lilith for dominion over this plane of existence. He has thus far manifested clairvoyance and psychokinesis. Caligari House offers complimentary certificates of authenticity with your purchase. We will open the bidding at fifty thousand."

A white paddle popped up in the audience.

"Fifty thousand from the Nomarch of Quela'larn," Dorothy said with a smile. "Trying to collect the complete set, I see."

The Nomarch of Quela'larn nodded. She was extremely large, and covered in reddish fur. She wore a pale pink toga, and a matching turban twisted around the thick, spiraling horns on her skull. Dean bowed to her. He could feel Dorothy's offended stare boring into the back of his head like a laser.

"Do I have fifty-five?" Dorothy continued. "Fifty-five, thank you. Sixty. Thank you, sir. Do I have seventy thousand? Seventy thousand?"

Dean strutted across the stage. On the far side was another archway, with a black curtain hanging open. Maybe that was where they kept the auction lots that they'd already sold. Maybe the Colt was over there, on another table.

"Genuine, certified Antichrist," Dean said to the bidders. "Free range. Beef fed. American made."

"Mr. Winchester." The warning in Dorothy's voice was unmistakable.

Dean added, "Know what's on those authenticity papers? Facts. Like the fact that I _died_ in old Yellow Eyes' special kid competition. And here I am. Fresh as a daisy. Know where the guy is who stabbed me? He's still dead. Get your wallets open, and cowboy up, people. I wouldn't let me get away for less than one hundred grand."

"Eighty thousand!" A bidder with long, dark blue hair and faintly bluish skin waved an auction paddle, the feathers on his or her jacket sleeves flapping.

Dean winked. "Thank you, cutie."

"Eighty-five!" countered the Nomarch of Quela'larn in a room-shaking roar.

"Eighty-six!" exclaimed Crying Game Smurf.

"Ninety!"

Silence.

"Ninety thousand to the Nomarch of Quela'larn," said Dorothy. "Ninety thousand going once."

Dean looked over at the Smurf, and pursed his lips, giving his best Blue Steel. Behind him, he heard Bela make a soft gagging sound. He grinned.

"Ninety-five!" yelled the Smurf.

"One hundred!"

"Anything less than a million is an insult." Sam's voice carried from the back of the room.

***

 _Let's kill them as well,_ Crowley suggested. _Every last one._

Yes. The idea sounded great; it sounded marvelous. Delicious. Sam recognized it was himself thinking this. Agreeing with the demon.

_No. Enough._

More than enough. Too much already. His knuckles were stiff with blood.

He stepped out of the shadows of the doorway. Whispers and murmurs rose in the audience. Bidders turned to look at him. But, Dean stood on the stage, staring at him in worry and confusion, and Dean was the only person in the room Sam gave a damn about.

"Mr. Winchester!"

Dorothy's eyes were wide, and she looked on the verge of panic. Crowley's excitement spiked inside of Sam, as Sam fought the demon for control of his body.

 _You,_ Crowley said. _You. At last._

"This is a private auction," Dorothy added. "You have already been asked to leave."

The familiar hot, red rush of power raced through Sam body. He wanted to struggle against it, but it felt so good. Sam felt his mouth curve in a pitiless smile. Dorothy went chalky pale.

"Time's up," Crowley said.

Dorothy scooped up her skirts and rushed off the stage through a curtained archway. The auction bidders closest to Sam scrambled out of his way. Sam felt the demon's building exultation and frustration. Crowley meant to chase Dorothy all through Caligari House and into the next dimension if necessary.

 _Hellhounds,_ Sam realized. _She can't summon Hellhounds inside Caligari House._

 _You could help me with that,_ Crowley said.

_Forget it._

As Sam reached the front of the room, Dorothy burst out of the archway, the Colt clutched in both hands. Dean dove between Dorothy and Sam, and Sam wrenched free from Crowley's control.

 _No!_ Crowley snarled.

Sam swept his left hand out. Dean staggered back like he'd hit an invisible wall. No way was Sam letting Dean catch a bullet aimed at him. Dorothy fired the Colt.

 _Stop,_ Sam thought. The bullet fell to the ground inches from his outstretched palm.

"You've got the wrong brother," he said to Dorothy.

He ripped the gun out of her grip before she could fire it again. The Colt hit the floor with a clatter. That's when the screaming started. The bidders fled, overturning their chairs, shoving each other down, to get out of the room first. Dean dropped to his knees, one hand clutching his throat, the other reaching for the abandoned Colt. There was a collar around his neck, Sam realized. Some sort of greenish metal. Strangling him.

Sam focused his mind. Twisted and pulled. The collar resisted. Not only the metal, but the spells. He could see the incantations twined around it.

"No," he said. "No. Two months. He's got two months."

He pulled harder. Heat built and burned and boiled inside of him. Blood burst out of his nose and poured down over his lips and chin. He tasted it hot and salty in his mouth. The collar snapped. Dean yanked it off, and flung it away. He gasped in air, grabbed for the Colt, and shoved himself to his knees. He swung around to face Sam, the gun raised.

"I don't want to use this," he said. "I know you're in there, Sam."

"Dean --" Sam began, but he couldn't keep hold of himself. Not after that. Crowley interrupted. "I haven't come for you. Not yet." The demon pointed at Dorothy. "I've come for her."

Tears spilled down Dorothy's face. "You lied to me! Our deal isn't valid anymore. You lied!"

Dean climbed unsteadily to his feet, keeping the Colt aimed at Sam.

"We made a deal!" Dorothy shrieked at Sam. "You promised me I would be a famous novelist!"

" _I_ didn't promise you anything," Crowley replied. "But for the record, that isn't what you bargained for."

Dorothy wiped her wet face with shaking hands. "Talent and fame. I traded my soul for talent and fame."

"Yes, and you got exactly what you asked for. Just because nobody took you seriously in 1910, doesn't mean you haven't got talent. And as for fame... the mystery of your disappearance has never been solved. You _are_ famous, duckling. It's not our fault you weren't specific."

"You lied," Dorothy sobbed. "You tricked me. You lied…"

Something slammed Sam in the stomach. He doubled over and collapsed to the floor, as Crowley burst from his body in a jet of blackness. Sam struggled blind in a black sea lit by purple sparks. Then the demon raced across the room. Dorothy screamed. She pitched backward, driven to the floor as Crowley took her. This was what Sam remembered from when Meg possessed him: the convulsions, the helpless struggling and choking.

Dean raised the Colt to shoot her before she could rise.

"Dean!" Sam yelled. "No!"

"Sammy? You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." Sam climbed to his feet. He felt stiff and bruised. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It came away red. "Don't shoot her. We made a deal."

Dean flashed him a look of disbelieving fury. "You --"

"Don't you start," Sam told him. "You of all people, Dean."

Dean's mouth pinched into a tight line. But, he backed off. Crowley climbed gracefully to her feet, shaking out the skirts of the silver-gray gown.

"Thank you, Sam," she said. Though it was Dorothy's mouth that smiled, it was the same cold smile Sam had seen before. "Now if you'll excuse me, I --"

Dean raised the Colt again, and pointed it at her. "Leave."

The demon lifted her hands in a mocking version of surrender. "Dean, Dean... that's exactly what I was about to do."

"No, you weren't," Dean said. "Get your smoky ass out of Caligari House. I know you can pop out of here before I can shoot you, but so help me, when I see you again, bitch -- I _will_ put a bullet in you. No matter who you're wearing."

"This isn't about you, Dean. Not yet."

Dean thumbed the Colt's hammer back. "Let her go."

Crowley's eyes narrowed.

"You want to make a deal?" Dean said. "Fine. Let's deal. You let Bela leave with Caligari House, and in two months, I'll go with you."

"Dean..." Sam murmured.

"Option A," Dean went on, "Sam and I stop trying to get me out of my deal. No Colt, no spells, no funny business. You come for me when my time is up. Sam and me, we don't shoot you in the face. Option B: you get shot in the face. Right now, or later on. Or both."

"I can't void Bela's contract," said Crowley. "I don't hold it."

"I know who holds the contracts," Dean replied.

Crowley's left eyebrow rose.

"I'm not asking you to void Bela's contract," Dean added. "Let her leave with Caligari House. That's all."

Crowley shook her head and clucked her tongue. "You Winchesters. Always so eager to sacrifice yourselves."

"Have we got a deal?"

"Deal," replied Crowley.

With that, she vanished.

Sam flailed his arms once. He felt like flailing them a lot more than that. "Dude."

"I know," Dean replied. "She _was_ here. She took off the second Dorothy shot you." He rubbed his throat, which was encircled by a line of reddish bruises. "Thanks."

"Sure," Sam said. "I got one question, though. Why are you dressed like the Dread Pirate Roberts?"

"Shut up," Dean growled. It didn't help that the Colt's butt now protruded from the waistband of his piratey black leather pants. "I had a hell of a time -- oh fuck my fuck! The time, Sam."

Sam grabbed his phone out of his pocket, and checked the time. He sagged with relief. "Five forty-five. Sunrise is at 6:04."

"Let's get out of here, huh?"

"Absolutely."

Sam backtracked the way he'd come, Dean following him. They encountered absolutely nobody. The auction bidders had all fled, probably deeper into Caligari House. Sam swung the front door open, letting in a rush of cool damp air. It smelled unbelievably wonderful. It was the sweetest fresh air Sam had ever inhaled.

He and Dean walked down the steps, and headed across the furrowed field toward the Impala. Dawn was just brushing the eastern horizon with hints of pink and gold. Sam looked back in time to see Caligari House disappear like mist, as the first light of dawn fell across the field.

Then he turned and hurried after his brother.

THE END

***


End file.
